“Killed!” he panted, rocking himself in a passion of distress. “He has been butchered! Oh! it was horrible!”
Rabecque gripped him by the shoulder, and steadied him with a hand that hurt. “What do you say?” he gasped, his face white to the lips.
Tressan halted, too, and turned upon Gaubert, a look of incredulity in his fat countenance. “Who has been killed?” he asked. “Not Monsieur de Garnache?”
“Helas! yes,” groaned the other. “It was a snare, a guet-apens to which they led us. Four of them set upon us in the Champs aux Capuchins. As long as he lived, I stood beside him. But seeing him fallen, I come for help.”
“My God!” sobbed Rabecque, and loosed his grasp of Monsieur Gaubert’s shoulder.
“Who did it?” inquired Tressan, and his voice rumbled fiercely.
“I know not who they were. The man who picked the quarrel with Monsieur de Garnache called himself Sanguinetti. There is a riot down there at present. There was a crowd to witness the combat, and they have fallen to fighting among themselves. Would to Heaven they had stirred in time to save that poor gentleman from being murdered.”
“A riot, did you say?” cried Tressan, the official seeming to awaken in him.
“Aye,” answered the other indifferently; “they are cutting one another’s throats.”
“But... But... Are you sure that he is dead, monsieur?” inquired Rabecque; and his tone was one that implored contradiction.